


Don't Talk of Worlds that Never Were

by fyredancer



Category: Tokio Hotel
Genre: M/M, Remix, Twincest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-28
Updated: 2014-01-28
Packaged: 2018-01-10 08:04:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1157142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fyredancer/pseuds/fyredancer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>During the first U.S. Tour for Tokio Hotel, Bill begins to have dreams of fire that have nothing to do with the summer heat they're dealing with. When he gets a second chance to save everything that's important to him, will he be able to make enough of a difference before everything goes up in flames?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don't Talk of Worlds that Never Were

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Second Chance](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/34948) by Maiwen. 



> Thank you to Maiwen and apologies for the liberties that have been taken!

Bill dreams of fire, and smoke billowing out over the choppy surface of churning water.

He's standing beside a raging inferno and he squints, looking for what he knows he must find.

He's flung stumbling against a rail that's hard against his back and he clings to it, a familiar panic choking him – the panic of looking for Tom, searching for his twin and finding him nowhere. Beyond the outline of the smoldering building is a sunset that mocks him with its gold-orange unfolding glory. The flames lick up from every surface in front of his eyes as though reaching up for that fiery colored sky.

Bill turns and gasps as his eyes connect with Tom's.

Tom is behind a pane of glass, both hands formed into useless fists pounding against its unyielding surface. _Go_ , Tom's mouth shapes the words. _Run!_

Bill shakes his head, but the choice is taken from him. The battering ram of an explosion lifts him up into the air. His ears ring on a single high, sustained note as he tumbles weightless through space.

There's a splash, and Bill sinks into the cool embrace of water that closes out everything.

Above the skin of the water, the firestorm continues to rage. Bill's soul is shrieking as a trail of bubbles pour from his mouth. _Tom. **Tom!!**_ He surges up with clumsy paddling movements.

Bill's head breaks the surface. He gasps, treading water in floundering ripples, but he may as well still be drowning.

His whole life has gone up in fire and smoke.

* * *

With a tearing cry, Bill paws free of entangling cloth that seems like a death shroud. It's dark, a stark contrast to the vivid blaze he's just witnessed; the heat smacking his skin in waves has been replaced with the slithery cool embrace of stale A/C fanning through the room. "A dream?" Bill murmurs to himself, confused.

He's just watched Tom die.

Shivering from more than the chill of the air-conditioned room, Bill slips out of his big, wide bed with the sheets he's mussed from one side of the bed to the other. He's always been a restless sleeper.

He makes his way to the adjoining door that will let him into the suite beside his. Wherever they're booked, management always knows to make this particular request, or they'll have a whiny Bill to contend with.

The room beside his is cool and dark as well, and the carpet is rough beneath his feet as he pads toward the big bed, sheets strewn from one side to the other and tangled around a tall, lanky frame. The handsome, almost pretty face nestled against a plump white pillow is slack with sleep. Bill creeps on bare silent feet to the very edge of the bed, where he crouches. He reaches his hand close beside the aquiline, slightly snubbed nose. A gentle puff of air meets his finger as Tom exhales.

Bill's eyes well up with sudden relief. He stands, clasping his arms tight around himself as he gazes down at sleeping Tom. Alive, safe beside him. Not burning.

Dreadlocks rasp against the pillow and Tom's blinking up at him with sleepy dark eyes.

"You okay?" Tom wants to know, his voice hoarse.

Not 'what are you doing here,' not 'go back to bed.' Bill smiles down at him, rueful for having disturbed Tom's sleep with a nightmare. They get little enough as it is.

"I will be," Bill replies, his heart still gallumping in his chest as though he's slammed five Red Bulls in a row.

Tom pats the expanse of unoccupied bed beside him. "Pull up a patch of sheet and stay here, if you can't sleep."

"Just for a little while?" Bill tests. "But it won't be very restful..." He swallows harshly. That's the reason they'd given each other, so long ago. They're both restless sleepers and they kick like mules, so they can't cuddle together like a pair of spoons like they used to, no matter how many nightmares Bill has.

"So we'll be awake together," Tom says simply.

Bill bites his lip but he slides in between the sheets beside Tom, careful to keep a palm's breadth of space between any given part of their bodies.

"Bad dream?" Tom prompts.

"The worst," Bill says, remembering Tom's face limned in fire, his mouth open. _Go,_ his mouth had shaped, while a crackling scream hurtled through the glass between them, the likes of which Bill's never heard in his life.

He hopes he never will.

 _It was a dream, it was a dream,_ he reminds himself.

Tom doesn't ask anything more, and when Bill turns to look at his twin, Tom's eyes are closed and his breathing is even again.

Bill tucks himself on his side and watches the even rise and fall of Tom's shoulder until it lulls him into a false sense of complacency. He falls asleep. This time he doesn't remember whether he dreams of fire.

When he wakes, rubbing sleep from his eyes, Tom is dressed and his travel bag is upright, pushed up beside the door. He stands beside the bed, clapping his hands together as he notices Bill is up if not exactly moving.

"Let's go, let's go," Tom says, full of forced enthusiasm. "Dallas, let's get on the road. We're going to Dallas, woo hoo, party!"

"I don't think the party is in Dallas," Bill says, grumpy as a boy who needs his morning coffee.

"No, you're right," Tom says, hovering at the foot of the bed a moment longer before he cracks a stupid grin. "The party's in my pants! Get up, or I'm making a Jessica Alba joke in the next interview no matter how inappropriate it is."

"You'll do that anyhow," Bill mumbles direly, pushing himself up from the bed and remembering with dismay how much packing he has to do before his ten cases can be toted back down to the bus. The Jessica Alba jokes don't even bother him anymore. She's unattainable, and Bill wonders sometimes if that's why Tom chose her for his celebrity crush.

After rubbing at his eyes a moment, Bill says, "Find me coffee and I'll get out of your room."

The speed at which a latte is produced makes Bill a little insulted.

The air outside the hotel hits his face with a slap of heat and Bill's sure he can feel his pores drying instantly. It doesn't matter how much moisturizer he uses or how much water his PA forces on him; they've been traveling city after city on a bus with iffy air conditioner through a dry, arid place. Bill's never known heat like this before. It's no wonder he's dreaming of fire.

The screams pierce through him with shrill desperation this morning and Bill signs pictures and posters and CDs and bits of paper waved in his face, moving like he's in a fog. Someone reaches out to snare his sleeve, grasping at his arm to pull him into the thick of the crowd, her lipsticked mouth coming close and lips parting to give him a blast of rank breath. Like back in Germany, in Europe, these girls have been camping for days with no amenities and it scares him even as he sympathizes with it.

Saki's there to pry her off, folding Bill into the circle of his arm and steering him securely for the bus. There'll be no more autographs.

Bill can't help but be glad, for now. There will _always_ be more autographs. He doubts the value that the movement of his own hand carries, at this point.

"So," Tom says, draping himself onto the low-slung couch beside Bill, who's still coping with the morning.

"Uhh," Bill responds, incapable of following early-morning shifts of subject, even from nothing to something.

"What do you want to do for our birthday?" Tom continues, and Bill scoffs.

"Like we've got a choice," Bill replies, burying his face in the curve of one arm.

Tom wriggles his brows up and down, up and down, comically wide swoops as Bill tips his head to one side and looks at him. "Sure we've got choices. If we're still in Vegas..."

"Vegas would be boring," Bill interrupts. "Can't gamble, can't drink in public. Can we even smoke in Vegas?"

"I dunno," Tom says, "I've never been there. Come on, we'll make our own fun. Sneak away from whatever we've got booked..."

"Give Jost a heart attack," Bill fills in with a sliver of malicious glee. Jost has been on him for ages to learn his English, and learn it well, and really Bill should only have himself to blame but it's Jost's fault somehow that he makes a fool of himself half the time.

"Get Georg to buy us drinks," Tom says wisely, and they snicker together for a moment. It's a fantasy. They don't have any say in what they'll be doing on their birthday. They're on tour; they're locked in. There's shows and interviews and photoshoots and signings. After looking at the schedule when it's presented, Bill tries not to think about it again. It's someone else's job.

"We'll probably be in some interview," Bill says, morose.

"We'll probably be onstage somewhere," Tom replies. "Roasting alive."

* * *

The sunset is a roil of color on the wavering blur of horizon as Bill shields his eyes with a hand. He walks into the well-appointed bar lounge with slow strides as though he's moving underwater. He looks around for his friends, his brother; he's used to being the center of every crowd.

"Hey." Tom's voice is a quiet syllable dropped in his ear.

Bill turns with a half-hearted attempt at a smile. "Hey," he returns, running a manicured nail over the rim of his wine glass. They've been given flutes of champagne with the injunction not to wave them around in public. Happy birthday, Bill and Tom; don't tank your careers by getting caught boozing on camera in the U.S.

"Want to talk about it?" Tom offers, his dark eyes letting Bill know he realizes it's not okay, and any attempts at pretense will be rejected.

Bill wrinkles his nose. "Headache," he returns, laconic. It's the heat that has him sluggish, and alcohol, despite the illicit joy of it, probably isn't helping.

"Want me to..."

"Nah, you know I don't like taking drugs," Bill demurs.

Tom frowns at him. "I'll go see if Natalie has some aspirin," he says.

"It smells in here," Bill says abruptly, pushing himself upright from the dark wood of the polished bar. He wobbles for a moment, drawing straight before Tom can grip his elbow to steady him. "I'm going outside." A queasy horror grips his insides. There's something wrong, yet he hasn't worked it out.

Tom sniffs the air, appearing more puzzled than disturbed. "Smells like what? There's a lot of people, a lot of cologne..." He follows Bill outside as Bill pushes his way through a saloon door that's clear glass on the top, honeyed brown wood on the bottom.

 _Where am I?_ Bill wonders for a moment, looking out over a strip of wooden flooring with a low wall in front of him. He turns, propping his butt against the low siding. He shakes his head as he meets Tom's concerned eyes. "No, it's nothing." He waves his hand in front of his face. "Maybe I was imagining it, or it was something inside..."

"Stay out here while I get you that aspirin," Tom offers, still giving him the eye.

"I am awfully thirsty," Bill says, ducking his head and peering up with seeming coyness.

Tom breaks into a boyish grin, shakes his head in mock disapproval, and jogs the short distance from where Bill leans against the low wall to the door that will let him back into the bar.

Bill's hands are tingling unpleasantly, the awful pins and needles of a limb cut off from the life-giving blood it needs, as he tracks Tom's progress through the bar. Tom gets a drink – water, Bill notes with relief. Each swallow is harsh and he's got dry mouth, and could thirstily down a bottle and ask for another.

He watches Tom stop to talk to Jost before heading back for him with a little 'I'm indulging Bill' smile on his face.

Bill lifts his hand to bestow a little wave. As he does so, he looks beyond Tom's shoulder to a group of people, Georg and Gustav leaning against the bar, someone unfamiliar in a dark suit extracting a book of matches from his jacket.

With preternatural focus, Bill zooms in on the single match the man has torn off. He's telescoping in as though his eyes are behind binoculars, and so he can see the spark as match head meets sandpaper strip.

Spark ignites, and the air is on fire.

Bill cries out as fire blooms through the bar. Tom's trapped behind the glass, flung forward and beating his blistering hands against the pane.

 _Go_ , Tom's mouth frames the word that Bill's entire existence denies. _Run!_

The world is upended in a blast of fire and smoke, and Bill is flung through an eon of pain, fixed on Tom's last look, only to be submerged in water that wraps him in cold, clinging arms.

The fire rages above. Bill doesn't want to break the surface, because he knows Tom is gone, and won't be there to pull him up from the depths.

* * *

"Bill. _Bill._ "

A hand shakes him out of his daze and Bill blinks up to meet brown eyes identical to his beneath a gathered brow. He can't speak; he sucks in the tiniest of gasps, terrified to break his silence lest tears begin to fall. He doesn't cry. He _will_ not cry. He transmits this resolve to Tom, who shifts to step between him and the interviewer, craning his head toward the nearest member of their staff.

Tom has only to give their security a single look before Tobi is declaring the interview over. Bill sucks in a breath, horrified with himself but letting Tom lead him away. They were in the middle of an _interview_ , damn it, and they're trying to break into the tough but worth it American market – and he's had some sort of episode?

He can remember the questions, typical interview patter, and then the inquiry that launched him into his panic attack...recollection... _thing_.

Bill can't breathe right now, he can't even think, and he comes to himself on a couch with his arms braced against his knees, Tom on the floor beside him kneading at the webbing in between each of Bill's knuckles.

"...okay?" Tom is asking, his brown eyes anxious. It's been a long time since Bill has had a break down and they've been running on low sleep and too much heat for weeks.

"No," Bill says, his face crumpling as he looks into Tom's, and remembers the expression on Tom's face as he looked into his eyes for the last time. Fire behind glass, and Tom had been telling him to save himself.

Tom hitches up on his baggy jean-shrouded knees, looking over his shoulder. 

Bill is barely aware of his bandmates, management, security – David and Tobi are arranged by the door like sentinels, and Georg and Gustav hover nearby at the window. Bill adores them all, but he's not going to lose it in front of them.

"Can you guys give us the room?" Tom asks quietly, and everyone shuffles out in short order with understanding frowns.

Bill takes a gasping breath as Tom squeezes his hand again.

"Talk to me," Tom insists, and Bill loses it, his body shuddering with sobs he still can't set free as he tumbles forward out of his seat and into Tom's arms, catching his twin by surprise.

This time it's a short drop through weightless space and he is caught and held. Tom has him. Bill is terrified for any prospect of a time in his life when that may not be true.

"I had a vision," Bill says, and Tom's brow furrows.

"A what?" he says, with a little half-smile, disbelieving.

"A vision," Bill repeats, more sure of himself now. He gives Tom his most serious face now so that Tom knows he's not putting him on. "I saw you _die_ , Tom. Right in front of me."

Tom's smile fades and his brow pinches, but he still doesn't look any less disbelieving. "You had a bad dream," he says.

"With my eyes wide open?" Bill says, pointed. "Right in the middle of an _interview?_ Come on."

"All right, so you tuned out for a moment," Tom says slowly, but he knows, as Bill does, this is unusual.

"I never have before," Bill says, quiet. Tom's thumb is stroking over his wrist in a silent gesture of reassurance, but despite the warmth of Tom near him, he's left cold. "I've never had the same dream before, either. This was the nightmare I had the other night, but in _broad daylight_. It's not a dream anymore, Tom."

"Tell me about it," Tom says, his face intent, and Bill could sigh with relief.

He goes through the particulars – the open bar, the party or whatever event, stepping out for fresh air, the fire. Tom, trapped behind glass right before Bill's eyes, urging him to save himself. The explosion, and the sudden drop into cold water.

Tom is still frowning after Bill has summed it up, and his thumb has gone motionless over a major vein in Bill's wrist.

"You're under a lot of stress," he says at last.

Bill grinds his teeth from the wave of frustration that roils over him. "I'm not a baby," he says through his teeth. "You don't need to treat me like a kid. I know what I _saw_ , Tom."

"You had a bad dream, and you're...whatever, reliving it?" Tom says, letting go of Bill's wrist and shaping expressive gestures to accompany his words. "It was a bad one. You know we can't stand it when we dream of one of us dying. Plus, it's been so hot lately..."

Angry, Bill clips his arms over his chest and begins to turn away. That was what he'd thought at first, too, but the second episode was so much more vivid, and gave him so much detail. He'd seen much more than the first hazy, foreboding dream.

It was a vision, he was sure of it.

Now he needed to do whatever was necessary in order to prevent what it warned. Losing Tom was akin to losing his own life. Losing _anyone_ else, team, bandmates, David or Dunja, would be devastating; but losing Tom would be cutting his own heart out.

"Hey," Tom says, touching his elbow. "If it happens again, come into my dream. Okay? Go from yours into mine. I'll keep you safe."

Bill huffs, but he uncurls from his defensive pose and stands beside Tom. They look at one another, only looking, until twin smiles bloom at the corners of their lips. Tom's protectiveness never fails to touch something tender within him.

"If I'm sleeping," Bill replies, reaching out to clasp his fingers around Tom's wrist, loosely braceleting. Pausing there until the steady thrum of a pulse is telegraphed back along Bill's fingers. "If you are, too."

* * *

Bill is walking along a narrow walkway that bobs and jerks beneath his feet, swaying with some undefined rhythm to which he can't acclimatize himself. He takes his last step up the incline, stumbling onto polished wooden floor. Across from him, there's a smooth white wall and beside it, glass windowpane.

After staring at it for a moment, during which he experiences concentrated deja vu more disorienting than the sway beneath his feet, he moves for the door nearby, slow as molasses. There's something inside, beyond that door. He's expected. He moves his limbs with reluctance. Behind him, Tom is a solid, familiar presence.

"Happy birthday!" a dozen people shout within. Flash-pops go off and Bill is grinning, plastering on his polished camera smile. Underneath it is worry, the niggling anxiety that won't go away. Something is wrong.

Tom touches his elbow and they share a warm smile. It's their birthday. What could possibly go wrong?

He makes the rounds with a glass of champagne, but afterward Bill has a headache. He leans against the bar, listless and so tired. When Tom comes up to see how he's doing, Bill doesn't deny he's faring poorly.

They step outside, as Bill fights the undercurrent of unease that's building up fast. It's trying to drag him away, pull him down and separate him from Tom.

"Stay out here while I get you that aspirin," Tom tells him, and Bill doesn't say no.

He watches in numb horror as Tom fetches a bottle of water, talks with Natalie a moment. It's not Tom who has his attention now. It's the man in the black jacket who is pulling a book of matches from an inner pocket.

Bill can't move to wave a warning; he can't unstick his tongue to shout.

He watches fire whoosh through every part of the bar inside as though it's setting the very air on fire.

Tom burns in front of his eyes, trapped behind glass.

Bill is knocked into the sky when the blast-wave hits him, tossed away from Tom, away from the carnage of burning flesh in the bar. He lands in water, reaching up with grasping hands even as he's already let slip everything that he loves.

With a heaving gasp, Bill surfaces, tearing his blanket aside and finding it substantial. It's dim within his bunk and the rocking motion should be soothing, but he shudders as he finds it deadly reminiscent of the bob and sway from his dream.

He's dreamed of fire again, and Tom, and although he's seen a little more, he still doesn't know _why._ Why were they at that place? Why does Tom burn behind the glass; why does Bill end up in water?

With a shaky hand, Bill reaches out to peel aside his bunk curtain. It rattles on its rail with the disjointed motion of his hand. It's warm inside the bus but not uncomfortably so, but Bill is covered with sweat.

He peers across the gap between bunks and even in the dim he can make out Tom, more or less upright and hunched over his knees. Tom stares back into Bill's worried eyes.

"You saw?" Bill whispers. He's almost ashamed, as though he should have been able to keep this from Tom; protect him from visions of death.

Tom gives him a nod, shuddering and pushing his sheets down toward the foot of his bunk.

"I can't sleep after that," Bill says in a hoarse murmur.

Tom gets to his feet. "We don't have to."

They're night owls, second kin to vampires; three a.m. wakefulness is in their blood. There's nothing unusual about the fact that they get up in unison and head, by silent agreement, for the kitchenette at the front of the bus. Bill catches a glimpse of himself in the reflective glass and realizes with a start that he looks _haunted._

As though he's just seen his twin die.

Tom piles into the booth beside him, same side, warm thigh snugged up against Bill's. He puts an arm over the back of the booth and it's exactly the tactile comfort Bill needs, feeling Tom warm and alive beside him. Maybe he's too old to pile into Tom's bunk, now, but they have this.

Too much of Tom is never enough, for Bill.

When Tom shudders, it passes through Bill's skin where they're pressed together. "That was _the_ dream?"

"Mm." Bill's chin drops toward his chest in an exhausted parody of a nod.

"That was a hell of a...well, I see why you were so unsettled," Tom says. "I dreamed I could smell hair burning. I think it was mine. I saw you falling through the air."

Bill replies, "We have to stop it from happening."

"It's a dream," Tom says. "A bad dream. It's all this heat affecting you."

"So what about the water?" Bill returns. He bites his lip. It's too important for him to stay shut up now. "I can't lose you."

"I know, it's okay," Tom says, touching the back of his neck. "You're not going to lose me, I'm right here."

Bill shrugs impatiently. "It's not just a dream, Tom. It's a _warning_. I've never had repeat dreams like that before--"

"We've never been on a tour like this before, in a foreign country this big or with so many fans and interviews where we can't speak German--"

"--and you died, I watched you die before I...before I got the chance..." Cutting himself off, Bill shakes his head impatiently, wiping at the corner of a traitorous eye before shaking his head.

"Before what?" Tom prompts.

"Tom, have you ever..." Bill begins hesitantly. He doesn't even know how to touch this one, to breach the surface of still waters long undisturbed. The reservoir of his love for Tom is like some vast underground lake; immense, depths unsounded, but hidden away from the light of day for the most part, surfacing only in brief trips he makes to dip from its reservoir to share with the world.

Tom makes a noncommittal, prompting sort of hum, letting Bill know he's listening.

Bill is quiet for moments longer, grasping the edge of the table between both hands, prying his fingers loose, and clutching all over again. He has to determine how to word this in the right way, a manner that Tom will be open to hearing – or at least, listening. He thinks about how to fit words together. He knows that territory. He can do this.

"Have you ever wondered what it would be like if we got the chance to be everything to one another?" Bill whispers at last, setting the words free as he's wanted for so long. There are things he suspects, and things he desires, and yet they've never intersected anywhere but vague imaginings and joking flirtation.

Tom's face reflects blank incomprehension at Bill. "But, we are."

Bill folds his arms over his front and turns away. He regards his own frustrated expression in the black reflection of the window beside him. His brow is knit; he knows he's phrased it in the most exact way he can. He was expecting shock, maybe repugnance, but not this. Not confusion.

Tom touches his shoulder. "Bill, what do you mean, 'everything?'"

Bill shakes his head. "Never mind," he murmurs, throat closing, rendering the last syllable to a hollow rasp.

"Come on, talk to me," Tom says, in the coaxing way that Bill can never deny. _Give yourself_ , Tom is entreating, and Bill can never deny it. He shares everything with Tom.

"Don't play dumb with me, Tom Kaulitz," Bill says, shifting in the booth until they're nearly nose to nose. "Even when it's _us_ , even when everything overlaps so much that the line blurs between us, you've done enough to be able to tell flirting from affection." His eyes are fierce and he's breaking an unwritten rule between them, but he's got more reason than ever.

Not even when Bill faced down surgery, when he was going under the knife, had Bill sensed what he wants slipping from his fingers. Bill is very good at getting what he wants, but he'd thought he would have more _time_.

The dreams let him know there's never enough time. _Never._

Tom's eyes darken, widening with understanding. He flounders. "Bill, I don't... _we_ don't...it's dangerous, you know?"

Bill pushes at Tom's shoulder. "Let me out," he says.

"No, we should talk--"

"Let me out!" he repeats, louder, with all the concentrated fury a trained vocalist can muster.

Tom hisses but he begins to slide out of the booth, clearly frantic for Bill to avoid sharing the turn their conversation has taken. Bill is pushing at him, at the table, all the way until he stands up, using Tom's shoulder for a crutch. He looks down into Tom's face as Tom drops back into his position in the booth, all soft-focus shock and darting eyes. "Forget it," he says, folding his arms over his thin chest again. It's not cold but he controls a shiver.

"Bill, I think you should--"

Bill isn't interested in Tom telling him what to do; especially not about this. "Forget it, I said!" Bill snaps, scrubbing at one makeup-free eye with the heel of a hand.

When Tom gets up from the booth and reaches for him, Bill skitters away, retreating toward the small couch smooshed into one side of the bus's front area.

"Bill," Tom tries again.

"I think you should go back to bed," Bill says, dreadfully quiet in his 'I don't want to talk about this' tone. He can't bear to meet the look in Tom's eyes, so he turns away. He doesn't want to see pity now that understanding has surfaced. He doesn't want to see the denial of everything he's hoped for, but suppressed this long.

Even now, Bill knows that the dream was a warning. Poised on this knife's edge, he's terrified that Tom will slip from his grasp one way or the other, either through his lack of action...or the words he's brought out into the open.

There's a moment of hesitation, then the charge leaks out of the air.

Bill deflates, wrapping his arms around him tightly, but not enough to hold himself together. When he looks over his shoulder, Tom is gone.

* * *

Bill takes cat naps; Bill has lost the ability to sleep a solid hour. They're in Vegas and he claws his way free of the blankets sobbing out Tom's name. Later that day they'll be in L.A. Panic is a tight iron band around his ribs – he can't breathe, can't think, can't see anything but fire.

The fire blazes up to consume his life. Every time he closes his eyes, it's etched there behind his lids.

He has to stop it, make sure it won't take place, but how can he when Tom won't even believe it's anything more than some dream brought on by their over-stressed schedule and the heat that greets them everywhere, more fervent than any fan?

Bill stows the odds and ends that have made their way from his many suitcases onto any available surface. He slips on a t-shirt and his biggest, most non-reflective sunglasses and goes in search of his brother, or at least the bus.

He finds Tom when they're packing away everyone's things onto the belly of the bus and Bill has already carried on his two bags that will keep him through the afternoon.

"We have to stop this," Bill says. It blurts from his mouth before any hello or good morning (afternoon) or how do you do, loud enough to be heard by Tom.

By others as well, maybe, given the way Georg shoots them a quizzical glance.

"There's nothing to stop," Tom says with an edgy, tart smile, cupping the join of Bill's elbow and guiding him toward the media room. They can speak in peace, there.

"I'm going to lose you," Bill insists, wrapping his arms around himself in a tight, comfortless hug. "It'll kill me."

Tom's brows knit together. "I'm not going anywhere you aren't, okay?" He shifts closer, the tip of his sneaker scuffing shyly over Bill's boot.

Bill sighs, frustrated. "I wish you'd take me seriously," he says, on the verge of transforming into one gigantic human pout.

"I take _you_ seriously," Tom says, his dark eyes solemn as a vow. "But it was a dream, Bill. What you see in them...it's not real."

Bill scowls and leans away when Tom steps closer, as though to shoulder-bump him or give him a playful hip check. "You saw it, too. If you'd talk to David with me..."

"About what?" Tom says, stepping back, mouth thinning as though he's lost patience at last. "Be reasonable, Bill."

"How can you ask me to be reasonable when I see you dying every night?" Bill exclaims, throwing his hand out in a sharp gesture.

"Look, I know how every little thing becomes such a big deal to..."

"Little thing!" Bill repeats, seizing on that underhanded minimizing of his deepest fears.

"You know how you are!" Tom bursts out, overriding him. "Nothing's just a problem, it's the end of the world; a snag in sound-check will bring the whole concert down...everything's a production, a mistake is a cardinal sin, a dream is a vision, the last chance for...for what?"

"Like you're not the same way!" Bill snaps. "You're every bit the perfectionist I am, Tom; you're just as exacting..."

"But I don't blow things out of proportion," Tom claims.

Bill scoffs. "Tell that to Jessica Alba," he says, and turns his back on Tom.

"Bill..." Tom says behind him.

"No, forget it; leave me alone," Bill says. "You don't believe me, I get it. _I_ know what I believe in."

He's gutted that Tom isn't with him on this.

A hand grasps his shoulder, and Bill looks over his shoulder with wide eyes, mouth compressed, lips folded between his teeth.

"Hey," Tom says, his eyes dark and weary and sad, communicating that same frustration at their lack of connection on this.

Bill keeps biting his lips, unable to give Tom what he wants. He needs to keep Tom safe; he _wants_ a resolution of this tension that's been spun out between them for years. He's getting neither.

"I'm with you," Tom says.

Bill can only shrug and stumble away, prying himself from Tom's assurance. It rings hollow to him after that brief but divisive spat.

He stows himself at the front of the bus with his headphones, tucked between silent Gustav and the window, staring at the flat expanses of wasteland that roll by as he keeps his pen poised over an empty notebook page.

* * *

As Bill walks around the crowded bar with its gleaming chrome and brass and polished length of wooden paneling, he looks around for the man in the black jacket. He knows it's coming.

He goes through the motions anyhow, reading lines as though scripted; he's being compelled, he's on a track and he can't change it. Tom comes over to commiserate; they step outside for the air that seems to clear Bill's senses but his throat is still dry, his head still aching. Tom promises to fetch him aspirin and water to down it, and Bill has the urge to reach out and restrain him, stop him from returning to the confines of the bar where, even now, the bar within is revolving in the first movements that will lead to the end.

Bill can't change it. He knows this even as he doesn't know _why._

He only knows this is all he can do, watch Tom's back receding as he returns to the bar and the people and the light glinting off brass. Bill waits with a growing sense of frantic as Tom circulates, gets water, stops to talk with Jost.

Their eyes connect, and Bill wants to smile, raises his hand to give Tom a wave.

Even as he's lifting his hand, puzzling over the numbness in his fingers, he focuses beyond Tom's shoulder to the man in the black suit jacket who's reaching inside of it.

 _No_ , Bill wants to say; _stop,_ but he can't prevent the fire that whooshes throughout the bar.

As Tom is propelled toward him, the ends of his hair alight, his mouth shapes words that make Bill start forward in surprise. _If it happens again, come into my dream. Okay? Go from yours into mine. I'll keep you safe._

Bill can move again. He stumbles forward, grasping the doorknob. It's not hot enough, yet, to sear his palm.

He grabs the door and hauls it open – not onto the fire, not to walk into the scene of that burning bar. He reaches out for Tom's dream in the way only they know how, and steps from his dream, bright daylight on fire, into cool darkness. It's relief and he moves forward gladly, seeking Tom. He'll be nearby, as every time they've done this since they were kids.

Bill sees Tom's bare shoulders framed in dreadlocks, not far away from him in the dimness of the room. His surroundings are generic, every hotel room they've ever stayed in. Bill ignores everything but the beacon of Tom before him and starts forward, hand outstretched for Tom.

As he gets closer, he can see beyond Tom. There's a mirror that Tom faces off with, and Tom is making low noises in his throat. His elbow is cocked to the side, his arm moving with a steady, familiar jerk. Tom's head is back and a telling "uh, uh, uh" tumbles from his mouth.

Bill keeps walking in spite of himself, drawn by the dream, by the promise of Tom's intimacy as much as his nearness; the thought this is safe, this is _Tom_ , nothing can hurt them here. Not cameras or judgment or people who can never understand them. If Tom is touching himself, there's nothing forbidden here.

When Bill reaches the place where he can see clearly over Tom's shoulder, his mouth falls open in a silent gasp. Tom is making those low, pleasured noises and a hand shapes his erection, it's true; but the image in the mirror that is before Tom's eyes is Bill.

As Bill watches, Tom groans and works himself faster, reaching up to place his left hand against the glass. The mirror Bill is moaning, too; his mouth open in pleasure to match Tom's. He touches the same place against the glass and it cracks, ever so slightly. The Bill within the mirror pushes his fingers through and laces them with Tom's.

Bill outside the mirror takes in a tiny, startled puff of breath.

With a sudden gasp, Tom swings his head up and away from the mirror, gazing over his shoulder with open-mouthed shock. He looks away from the mirror into the real Bill's eyes.

"You're here?" Tom whispers, pulling his hand away from Bill's doppelganger in the mirror.

"I'm here," Bill says, reaching up to tug at his hair, which must be full of that sick smoke odor.

"You saw?" Tom wants to know, moistening his lip with an anxious tongue.

Tom is naked and hard before him. Bill's never admitted he wants something so badly.

"I see right now," Bill says, reaching for him.

When Tom pulls his hand away from the mirror, a single, lightning swift crack rips down the center of the glass like a bolt.

Bill can't even gasp as his reflection – not his true reflection, but the Bill that Tom has conjured in the mirror – stretches in a silent scream and shatters into a million pieces. The mirror crumbles away and fire pours into the room, washing over Tom, washing over Bill.

Even as he starts awake, panting and covered in sweat as he lies tangled up in the confines of the sheet webbing him into his bunk, Bill is riveted on one thing, one image.

And right now it's got nothing to do with fire, and everything to do with Tom.

* * *

They're in a small mobile entourage, it's their birthday, and there are cameras before which they have to perform – it should be hard to avoid your own twin, but Bill is stung when he realizes that's what Tom is doing.

At the breakfast table, there's a birthday cake. Bill is already on his way to a bad day but he manages to smile and cut the cake with Tom as the camera rolls, and wipes quickly and furtively at his eye when he's stung by Tom's careless words about Bill having made a wish for something materialistic.

"Ah, yeah, I'll have to think of something," Bill manages, wishing he'd blown smoke directly into Tom's _eyes_ instead of their cooperative effort to extinguish the candles. The only thing Bill's wished for is to keep him safe.

He knows how Tom is, always covering up the potential sentimentality of the moment with brusque talk, but Bill is hurt anyhow.

"You're next, old man," Tom warns Gustav when the camera is turned off and he gets up from the table. He hitches up his pants and makes a beeline for it when their drummer chases him around the table and out the door.

Bill sighs, resting his chin on one hand and wishing moodily they could have planned their own birthday this year, as they had before. He'll never be eighteen again – what's his next milestone? Another year gone and all they've got is a lukewarm tour in the States to show for it...

Tom is avoiding him, and that cuts Bill the deepest.

"You look tired," David says, taking the vacant seat next to him.

Bill pulls himself upright and fixes on a professional-caliber smile. "Haven't been sleeping well. It's nothing," Bill assures him. He imagines a string pulling his head erect, shifting his posture into perfect carriage. "Not the first time, won't be the last."

The twins' problems are their own, and Bill would never think to breach the trust of their reservoir of non-disclosures. David is a trusted associate, one might even say close friend, but Bill can't share what's really weighing him down, not even with him.

"I thought it might be that you're upset to be working on your birthday," David says, placing a hand on his shoulder.

Bill turns his smile up a notch. "Same answer – not the first time..."

"...won't be the last," David concludes. "We've got a surprise waiting for you at the end of the day, though. Something to look forward to?"

"A surprise with cameras?" Bill ventures, having every right to be suspicious. Sometimes he thinks it's management's goal to tape every aspect of his existence. At some future date he'll wake up to a THTV special on Bill's morning bowel movements.

"No cameras," David says with a small chuckle.

"Ah," Bill says, relaxing somewhat. "That's okay, then." All he really wants to do by the end of the day is drag himself into bed and somehow, Tom will be there, willing to work through the weight of things unsaid, stubborn enough to _stay_ until they've reached resolution.

That, and Tom's safety, are all he can wish for.

David pats his shoulder comfortingly. "Let's bring high energy to these next few engagements, then the afternoon is yours."

"But not free," Bill says, wistful.

David's smile slackens at the corners, and his brow creases. "Well, we do have something planned..."

"It's all right," Bill says, waving his hand. He's used to it.

He knows he needs to go and get ready, but he searches out Tom, first. There's a limited amount of places that Tom can be in the morning as they need to get ready for their first engagement of the day, and Bill is familiar with them all.

It's as though they're doing a dance, though. He checks the hotel suite that serves as their base of operations, and no Tom. He finds Gustav, last known sighting of Tom, and their bandmate points him toward the buffet area where a continental breakfast is drying out and the urn of coffee has only bitter dregs. He seeks out Natalie, thinking his twin may have gone early for his veneer of makeup to give him that natural look in spite of flash and other camera effects. She steers him toward the bus, yet Bill is sure his twin hasn't boarded.

At last, defeated, Bill has to go get ready.

He thinks at last to check the adjoining door between their suites, and finds it unlocked. Tom's in his room, folding caps into a suitcase with neat, precise movements.

"Tom," Bill says, peremptory and relieved all at once.

Tom stiffens, and when he looks up there's a wariness in his eyes, a reluctance.

"You lied to me," Bill accuses straight off. He's got no patience to be given the runaround, least of all today. He knows what he saw in their shared dreams; moreover, Tom _knows_ that Bill is aware now, has had his eyes opened.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Tom replies, avoiding his eyes. "I don't lie to you, Bill. That would be stupid. You'd know!" He laughs, the sound ringing hollow.

"You said you don't feel that way," Bill whispers, his voice shutting down as it does every time he attempts to breach this subject. "About--"

"I never said that," Tom interrupts, cutting his eyes Bill's direction but they're hard, unforgiving. "I said it's dangerous."

Bill is quiet for a moment. "Life is dangerous," he says, his eyes burning with unfamiliar heat. "Every minute, you could lose the chance to make the most of it. Lose the possibility to speak whatever words you kept, unsaid..."

"This isn't a song," Tom says, getting up. "You can't wrap it up in neat lyrics and give someone the answers they want to hear. And no matter how much of the day you want to seize, there are some chances you can't take."

He leaves, grabbing his suitcase and exiting the hotel room. He leaves Bill desolate behind him.

* * *

It's a long day and Bill hasn't slept a genuine restful half-night's worth of sleep, let alone a full night, in days – what now seems like weeks. They're rushed from one engagement to the next and Bill crackles with high energy, his own rockstar brand of manic, for hours. He doesn't know where he pulls it from – the deepest roots of his self, maybe. He imagines himself a candle burning at both ends, shortening the end of his life even as he burns so brilliant for now. It's small wonder he begins to droop like a wilting plant for lack of sun when they're bundled into another van, and shuttled off to one more appointment.

One more, David has promised; it's always one more, so far as Bill is concerned, from the next to the next to the next. He finds himself arranged against Tom's shoulder in a non-consensual cuddle and Tom doesn't say a word, only lets Bill take possession of the large sleeve of his hoodie and close his eyes.

Only for a moment, Bill promises himself. Wherever they're going, it's not far enough away for a real nap.

He dozes. Tom's beside him; all is safe for now.

Bill jerks awake from the sight of flames that seem permanently etched behind his eyelids. Someone's rolled open the door to the van beside him. It's not the roar of flames as he imagined.

"Surprise!" David tells him, standing before them as they pile out of the van, Bill bobbling like a sleepy top and grasping a fold of Tom's hoodie for balance.

The scent is the first thing that hits him; a sharp tang, brine of salt and the miasma of fish as Bill's never smelled it before. He looks out wide-eyed over a forest of upright poles against a canvas of blue sky; row upon row of masts for dozens, maybe hundreds of boats lashed to their bays. Bill shades his eyes with a hand, a low, impressed noise leaving him.

"Whoa," Tom says beside him.

They've been brought to a pier on the waterfront. Bill stares down the strip of concrete that is lined with boats to either side. Beyond it, there are swells of dark blue water. At that moment, it all clicks. The glass-wrapped bar, the low narrow wall outside, the explosion, Bill flung into space until he's propelled into the _water._

This is what it's like to run out of time.

"We chartered a yacht for the evening," David says, all smiles. "Happy birthday, Tom and Bill."

Bill is frozen in place, his chest heaving. He can't even look at Tom beside him. He turns and bolts.

There's an instant of delay while no one can believe their lead singer is doing a runner. There are shouts behind him; Bill churns his arms and redoubles his efforts. He's got legs longer than anyone but Tom's; he can do this.

They can't go on the boat without him; he's the guest of honor. So he'll run as far and fast as he can and hope it keeps them all off that boat long enough to stay alive.

It's the boat. It's always been the boat. Bill has dreamed it often enough he can replay the vision now; the molten sunset shining through the windows of the bar. He doesn't know what caused the explosion, he only knows how much time he's got left, and he has to run and hide until he knows they're not going to be some tragic headline in music news for the next day.

Even if _he_ were to live, for Bill it would all be over.

He runs until he's panting, sweat beading his neck and under-arms, a vein throbbing in his forehead that must be unsightly. He takes quick turns and runs deer-startled swift up alleys he'd never risk in his right mind. Bill is a big believer in never going anywhere without a bodyguard but he outstrips them now, turning and hurrying on past people who stare at him, a tall gangly boy in black and too much makeup, hair fluffed out like the quills of an angry porcupine.

When he drops into a weary jog there's a stitch in his side and he's sure he can go no further. He has no credit card, no American cash, and a cell phone that he turned off after its first strident rings. He wants to pop into a coffee shop or one of the fast food joints that line the boulevard but he's pretty sure they won't take a Kaulitz signature as currency.

Most of all he wants to keep running, until he's sure Tom – and everyone – will be safe.

Bill wanders through the streets and barely takes notice of street signs or landmarks. He doesn't care if he gets lost – he wants to get lost. He hopes it will be dark by the time someone finds him, and wonders if that's enough. If the damage can be contained. If the moment will be past, and he'll have done enough to change things.

He's loitering by a wedge of greenery that a nearby sign proclaims to be a park, holding his fingers out for a large dog to sniff as its patient owner pauses with a smile and doesn't seem to care that Bill's English is limited, when a tall, shaggy-headed figure emerges from behind the visual screen of a tree. Tom has found him.

"Sorry," Bill says to the dog and its owner, and tries to break away again.

"Bill!" Tom says sharply, his tone brittle with anxiety.

Bill peers up, panicked, at the sun that has only begun to gild the building tops with fading golden light.

"No," Bill replies, panicked but knowing he can't outrun Tom, not without the element of surprise.

Tom explodes. "What the hell is wrong with you, Bill? Running away like that – what were you thinking? No security, turning your phone off...have you had a complete mental break? Are you off your meds?"

Bill folds his arms hard over his chest and glances, frantic, for the sun that's tipping the buildings with flares of orange color. It's too soon. "You know I've been off those for over a year," he says, sulky. "They made me fat and dim-witted."

Tom snorts, closing the distance between them and grabbing Bill by the shoulders. He gives him a good, hard shake. "Unbelievable!" he says, jaw tensing, his face shut down like an angry fist. "This was dim-witted. We're going back."

"No, we can't!" Bill protests, even as Tom clamps a hand around his upper arm and begins to haul him down the sidewalk. He looks around for anyone who can help him, but the people nearby are studious in their inspection of anything in their surroundings that does not include Bill and the scene he's making.

Besides, he recalls; no one will speak German.

"Is this about your stupid vision again?" Tom says, and there's a sneer in his voice now. "Because this is really going too far!"

"It's all coming together," Bill says miserably, dragging his feet as Tom tows him up the sidewalk with an implacable grip. "The boat...the bar, it's inside the yacht. The low white wall, the explosion, me falling into the water...it's because we were on a _boat_ , Tom."

"This isn't the movies," Tom informs him, reaching out to seize his shoulder.

"No!" Bill exclaims, slapping at Tom's hand. He draws back, taking a quick step and batting away Tom's fingers as his twin reaches for him again. "You can't make me, I won't go!" He steps back.

Tom follows, grabbing at his arm with strong fingers. Bill claws at him and Tom hisses, his expression going blank with determination. He advances on Bill too fast, grabbing an arm and twisting it behind him. Bill tries to kick, limps along beside him, and bears his weight down like the drag of a child gone limp.

"You are not going to do this," Tom says in his ear as Bill's 'no, no, no' is sending more and more stares their way. "What are you, nine instead of nineteen? I've had it, Bill – this isn't like you!" He locks Bill's arm behind him, the pain going through his arm making him stiffen and go along with Tom to avoid more of the same.

"Says the one who's hurting me, not believing in me," Bill says between his teeth.

"There's a limit to everything, Bill," Tom says, implacable as he frog-marches Bill along with him as though Bill's his prisoner. "Sometimes you have to learn that the hard way. We're going back. I'm calling David."

Tom keeps a firm hold of him as he pulls his phone out one-handed. Bill bats at it, trying to smack it out of his hand and provoking nothing more than a death glare from Tom. 

"Quit that," Tom says, gripping Bill's arm tight. The pain isn't so bad; the sense of betrayal is worse. Tom hits a speed dial with his thumb, calling David. "I found him. Yeah, I know. No, we're just about back there...only five minutes or so. I'm sorry...I know, yes! I can't believe it either. I don't know what's come over him."

He hangs up the phone and Bill sneaks glances at the uncompromising line of Tom's jaw. Even in the face of Tom's anger Bill is still trying to figure ways to wheedle around him, get what he wants. In this case, what's best for everyone.

Bill is chagrined to realize they are, in fact, only five minutes' walk from the pier and all his dodging, all of his running and twisting and turning, has only gotten him this far. His convoluted method of escape turned out to be so close to the harbor he might as well have made a straight line for the park and hidden behind a tree, for all the good his running has done him.

"You didn't need to apologize for me," Bill says, sulky. Even now he's thinking of tearing himself from Tom's grip and throwing himself into the harbor water, brackish and murky as it appears. He knows Tom will curse, kick his shoes off, and follow. It's how they're wired.

"I'm sorry for me," Tom snaps.

Bill bites his lip and glares over at his twin, drawing himself up those extra couple of centimeters that make him feel more balanced in the face of Tom's constant attempts at 'protection' – even, apparently, from Bill himself.

"I'm not," Bill says, cut to the quick over Tom's betrayal. Tom can't even humor him for the sake of it being their birthday.

"I suppose it's useless to ask why you did it," Tom prods.

"Yes," Bill says dully. "You're right." They've been through it all, from reasoning to ranting, and Tom won't believe him. Bill's through with trying.

"You were gone for two hours, you know that?" Tom says suddenly, sounding as though he's choking back something. "Two hours. Do you know how scared I was?"

"Not as scared as I've been," Bill mutters.

Tom shakes his arm. "This is real!" he bursts out. "Here and now, you and me, you running away – slipping past our bodyguards, leaving our protection behind. A lot of people were coming to celebrate, Bill, and now they're all out looking for you. This is the reality!"

"It's no less real to me because I've dreamed it!" Bill shouts back, trying to slip free of Tom's grasp. Tom has a good grip on his arm, though, and makes an enraged noise remarkably close to a growl.

They're back at the pier, and Bill is right back where they've started.

He can't change anything.

"No," he utters, slumping his shoulders in defeat. There's no one else around, though – it's just the two of them. He's starting to brew wild, desperate thoughts. He's got very few options, though, and Tom is on the alert, too wise to Bill's methods.

"David and the others are on their way," Tom tells him. "He said we should go ahead and wait on the boat. It's this one, just up here..."

"We can't get on that boat," Bill insists as Tom forces him to take another step, and another, and another toward the slip where a wide, high, grand white boat with the ominous name of Phoenix II etched onto its rear is tied and bobbing gently on the water.

"Come on, Bill, you're being ridiculous now," Tom says. "Wasting a lot of money – we paid for those two hours you just led us on a chase, you know? Not to mention all the camera footage that's wasted after that panic attack."

"David promised no cameras," Bill returns, sulky. He tries to jerk his arm out of Tom's grip as they reach the gangplank but Tom is stronger; he always has been. He's marching Bill up the pier toward the boat that makes Bill's eyes go wide like a terrified horse's. "And I'm not having a panic attack! It's a reasonable fear." He digs his heels in, making himself a limp, uncooperative millstone.

"It was just a dream," Tom insists.

"Like yours was?" Bill shoots back. "So you _don't_ want--"

"It doesn't matter what I want," Tom says, fingers biting into Bill's upper arm.

Bill bites his lip to stifle a whimper, glaring over at Tom.

"All right," Bill says, caving in swiftly enough to make Tom arch his brows in surprise. "I'll get on the boat."

Tom just looks at him.

"I forgot my cigarettes," Bill says, attempting to fold his arms over his front. It's awkward with Tom still holding onto his right arm, but he manages. "They're still in the van. I want a smoke."

Tom sighs. "I'll call someone. Everyone's on their way back--"

"I want a cigarette _now_ ," Bill says, like a child indulged with every whim. "Everyone's still out looking, it'll take them ages to get back."

"Ten minutes, maybe," Tom says, frowning at him.

"I'll get on the boat," Bill bargains. "If you go back for my cigarettes."

"Uh...huh," Tom says, staring at him.

Bill holds up a hand. "I swear to you, Tom Kaulitz, by the Jumbie I hold most sacred, I will get on the boat right now."

Tom lets go of him, but folds his arms and stares him down.

Bill heaves a sigh, shaking his head in the tiniest of movements to imply he's disappointed Tom finds him so untrustworthy. He moves for the rickety gangway, testing it with a toe before risking his weight on it.

"All right," Tom says, staying right where he is.

"I'll wait by the railing," Bill promises. "Is there crew on the boat?"

"How should I know?" Tom returns. He looks around the pier, spotting a quartet of men not far from the slip. One of them is wearing a white uniform jacket embroidered with the words 'Phoenix II.' "Ah, there they are."

Bill squints and spots the man in the black jacket. He wonders if the cabin within is already full of that odorless gas that made his face numb, his hands and feet tingle as though they'd fallen asleep. There's only one way to find out.

"I'll see you in a minute," Bill says, all unconcern. He flips a hand over his shoulder in lieu of farewell.

It's not fair, not if this is to be the last, but this is what Tom has forced him to.

* * *

Tom stands at the foot of the gangplank with his arms folded, watching Bill make his way up the sway of the planking that leads up to the yacht that David has chartered for the afternoon and evening. A scowl is etched onto his face in seeming anger, but he's deeply worried about the way Bill has been acting for the past few days. He's starting to suspect his twin is having some kind of mental break from all the stress crammed into the past year, his vocal problems and tour cancellation and the heat hammering down on them as they tour through a huge, bewildering foreign nation. The hectic schedule is nothing new to them, but this is the first time Bill's been so insistent over bad dreams.

When Tom is satisfied his brother is actually stepping foot on the boat, not faking him out and will actually stay put this time, he turns to make his way back up the pier to where their unmarked white van is parked. Bill probably left his Marlboros on the seat and they got shoved into a crease of the bench or on the floor in the scuffle of four boys piling out of the confines of a van.

Tom tucks his hands in his pockets and strides up the pier, head bowed. He has to be gruff with Bill or he'll go soft, melt down along with Bill and give him everything he wants, no matter how unreasonable.

He wasn't expecting Bill in his dreams the other night, despite the invitation. It's been a while since they've shared dreams and in the past it's been more of a seamless blend, less an invasion. Dreams are the only place Tom has deemed safe for his most forbidden fantasies.

It's less shock to find Bill wants him that way, and more resignation. As Tom has made his position clear, it's far too dangerous.

He glances over his shoulder to make sure Bill has stayed put. Tom's brow furrows and he halts in mid-step. "Bill, what--"

Bill is at the wide wooden side of the yacht, resting one elbow on the rail as he extends a cigarette perched between index and middle finger. He's pulling a lighter from his pocket, sticking the cigarette between his lips and cupping it against the wind as he flicks the flame on.

"What are you doing?" Tom shouts, furious at his twin for tricking him, for whatever unknown reason. None of their team are there yet and the crew hasn't boarded – why did he get Bill onto the yacht, anyhow? It was a stubborn point of pride, or something. Proving Bill's fears baseless.

Bill waves at him, turning from the railing to flick his cigarette. There's sun shining through the glass windows behind him, backlighting Bill and bathing him in golden glory. He drops his arm, still smiling at Tom. Relaxed, happy in appearance for the first time in days.

Tom squints and picks up the pace, reaching the base of the gangway as Bill turns to open the glass door that Tom recognizes, now, from his dream. It's the door of the bar that was wreathed in flames in Bill's dream. Their dream, where Tom saw the horror on Bill's face as he yelled at Bill to go.

"Bill!" Tom screams, understanding at last.

Bill tosses his lit cigarette into the bar, his whole body already flinching.

The world goes up in flames before Tom's eyes. He's tossed off his feet by the concussive wave of the blast as the belly of the yacht explodes.

* * *

Tom blinks and lifts his head in bleary confusion, trying to puzzle out why he is lying face-down on concrete. He begins to cough, eyes watering, and pushes himself up. Realization slams into him in the next moment with the force of the shock that knocked him off his feet and he scrambles to his feet, shouting incoherently.

"Bill! _Bill!_ " he screams. There are men beside him, pointing and gesturing, babbling frantic snatches of English that barely penetrate Tom's comprehension as he faces the gutted hulk of a yacht from which dark smoke is bellowing like an angry dragon's fumes. Tom cares about one thing only and he scans the water with frantic eyes, kicking his shoes off and doffing his cap and hoping Bill's vision came true in this one respect – has he been thrown clear of the water?

There's a hand on his arm and someone is saying something urgent in English, but Tom shrugs the man off. He realizes now what Bill was after, asking if the crew was on the boat, sending Tom back for the cigarettes he still had in his pocket. Bill wanted to get everyone clear of the boat and potential explosion.

He wanted to keep Tom safe, despite Tom's disbelief in him.

A startled cry breaks free of Tom as he spots a scrawny figure bobbing face-down in the water.

"Bill!" Tom shouts. The man beside him is saying 'no, no,' one of the few words Tom doesn't have to think to translate, but Tom ignores him and makes a clumsy dive into the harbor, pushing off with his legs to make sure he clears the wooden pylons.

The cold water is a shock, almost enough to make Tom himself pass out if the stakes aren't so high. He swims for Bill, forgetting any rescue training or countless episodes of Baywatch he's seen and he grabs Bill into the crook of his arm, turning him onto his back as he treads water.

Bill's face is white and cold, and water streams around his still features. He looks like a drowned mermaid, Ophelia gone down the river, something beautiful and past reach. Tom bites his lip to stifle a sob and cradles Bill in one arm, kicking out and beginning to stroke for the nearest ladder he can see before he realizes there's no way he can get Bill back onto the pier from the harbor. Not without help.

He treads water with Bill in his arms for what feels like an eternity as the men on the pier hustle to lower a makeshift tarp and rope rig into the water to help retrieve Bill. As far as Tom can tell, Bill's not breathing and Tom knows every second counts. He surrenders Bill grudgingly to the canvas embrace so that they can reel him up the side. Tom doesn't want to let Bill go for a single instant, so terrified of what can happen in each discrete heartbeat from the time his fingers leave Bill's cold wrist, but he has to, and so he does.

When Tom scales up the ladder a mass of people have descended, David and their team included. Tom barely sees them, can hardly acknowledge them as someone hands him a rough blanket and someone else tells him an ambulance is on the way. All he sees is Bill, face so white and motionless, a man beside him bent over to administer CPR, and Tom shoves aside two people in his way to drop to his knees beside his twin.

He's not breathing, himself, until Bill turns his head and spits up a plume of water and begins to cough. At that instant, Tom inhales a gulp of air and seizes his twin's hand.

Tom thinks it's Bill who's shaking until he realizes his own teeth are chattering.

Brown eyes open slowly, almost reluctantly, and Bill turns his head.

"You idiot," Tom says, and that's not the first thing he wanted to say but that's what comes out. He's still so scared.

"I'm fine," Bill says, and a dazzling smile flashes across his face.

"You're not fine! You...you blew yourself up!" Tom sputters.

"You're fine," Bill says, his hand tightening around Tom's fingers to a painful degree.

Tom's not letting go.

"So I'm fine, too," Bill summarizes.

"All right," Tom says, the fight going out of him. "Have it your way."

Bill nods, closing his eyes. "Everything's going to be all right."

"Shit," Tom says, the shock still vibrating through his veins, his very bone structure. "You really didn't want to get on that boat."

Bill laughs, but it segues into weak fluttery coughing and Tom shuts up.

He doesn't let go of his brother's hand.

When the paramedics come, they agree, surprisingly, with Bill's assessment that he's fine. Bill tells everyone he smelled gas, and ran for the railing to dive over the side when he dropped his cigarette. Only Tom knows the lie, and he's not telling. Bill is swaddled in towels and allowed to return to the hotel, though under strict orders to relax, sleep, and take it easy the next few days.

Tom leaves David and Dunja to deal with everything and takes his towel-cocooned twin into his suite, locks the door behind them, throws the bolt chain for good measure, and takes Bill to the bed to wrap him in a heap of blankets.

"I'm still cold," Bill tells him, teeth chattering.

Tom nods; he can feel it too. He strips out of his own wet clothing, gets on a clean, dry pair of boxers, does the same for Bill, and applies his skin directly to Bill's.

"You shouldn't," Bill says softly. "Might give me the wrong ideas."

Tom wraps himself tighter around Bill, a leg over Bill's and an arm over his chill, skinny side, aligning them chest to chest. He plays a hand up Bill's spine and strokes a shiver from him that has nothing to do with the cold.

"Maybe you've got the right idea," Tom replies, equally soft. "I was the one who was wrong, wasn't I?"

Bill's eyes are closed and his face is solemn. "Do you mean that? If you're...if this is...I mean, if you're only doing this because of what happened, you should let me go."

A radiance of warmth is suffusing Tom's chest. He keeps caressing Bill's back, and nudges their noses together.

"I'm never letting you go," Tom informs him. "It put everything into perspective – that moment, when everything goes past so fast it blinds you? All I saw was you. You're everything to me, Bill; you always have been."

Bill opens his eyes and they're shimmering, but he lets not a single tear fall as he breaks into a sweet, uncertain smile. "So you believe me, now?"

Tom takes action by way of answer and tips his head, angling to press forward and they bump noses before their mouths meet. Bill is giggling, a soft huff against Tom's lips, and they seal their mouths together after two unsuccessful attempts, mostly because Tom has to pin Bill's lips down to stop his giggling. They share a chaste kiss, dry lips rubbing together until Bill makes a noise in his throat that Tom's never heard before. Tom slants his mouth more aggressively over Bill's, then, and their lips press and slide and the kiss becomes wet and urgent. There's more than simple heat building up between them.

When they part, Tom is shaking again. "I believe in us," he says, his voice cracking. The pressure that's been building since he watched the boat blow hits him now and Tom is horrified when a choked noise issues from the depths of him. He holds Bill tight and Bill caresses his face and side as tears begin to slide, thick and fast, from his angrily-pricking eyes and they won't _stop_ but Bill holds him, leaning in to kiss and capture so many Tom loses track. He cries himself out and Bill holds him, a few tears slipping free of his control as well, until at last Tom coughs into the pillow and Bill pats his back. He's done.

They share salty kisses at the end of the evening, still curled up together as close as they've ever wanted to be. Tom makes himself a promise, brushing black hair away from Bill's pale face, that he will never take this for granted again.

"It's the beginning again," Bill says drowsily, making Tom prop himself on an elbow and smile. He'd thought Bill has fallen asleep at last. "You and me, we'll start something new, and give each other the last held-back parts of ourselves, this time."

"We make our own rules?" Tom checks.

"We always did," Bill replies, nuzzling sweetly against Tom's neck, pressing an exhausted, relieved kiss to his jaw.

"You know some day I'm going to want more than kisses," Tom warns, keeping his hands above the waist as he curls his arms around Bill as tight as they'll go.

"When it gets to that point," Bill answers, "so will I." His face is free of the visions of fire that have haunted him, leaving Bill drawn and sleep-deprived. It sets Tom free, too.

The flame that burns between them is the only one they care about now – and hopefully for the rest of their lives.


End file.
